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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188621">Welcome to Gravity Falls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket'>blackcricket</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adult Dipper Pines, Alternate Universe - Night Vale, Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Comedy Horror, Dark Comedy, Eldritch Bill Cipher, F/F, Gravity Falls - Freeform, Gravity Falls References, Mentions of Stalking, Radio Show Host!Bill Cipher, Raised Apart, Station intern!Mable, Threats of Violence, Unending Nicknames, scientist!Dipper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:03:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“A stranger arrived in town today. Or more precisely, tonight; exactly three and a half minutes ago. He says he is a scientist.” The radio host laughs, bright and incriminating; Dipper can almost imagine the toothy smile bridging the sharp panes of a face after hearing that laugh. “We have all been scientists at one point or another.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Cipher &amp; Dipper Pines, Bill Cipher/Dipper Pines, Dipper Pines &amp; Mabel Pines, Pacifica Northwest/Mabel Pines, past!Gideon Gleeful/Mable Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Welcome to Gravity Falls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dipper has been in Gravity Falls for precisely three minutes before his car radio crackles on—untouched. The mountain community’s rumoured isolation encouraged him to prepare for a lack of internet connection, for his laptop battery to unexpectedly drain due to phantasmal phenomenons, but the radio was unexpected. </p><p>“Today you will meet a beautiful stranger,” an unfamiliar voice chirps. “Actually, hundreds of beautiful strangers. Everyone is beautiful and you know almost none of them.” Excitement bubbles to the surface of their voice. “Welcome to Gravity Falls.”</p><p>Dipper’s shoulder’s release an ounce of their tension, the contents of his car jittering nosily around him. So far so good . . .</p><p>“A stranger arrived in town today. Or more precisely, tonight; exactly three and a half minutes ago. He says he is a scientist.” The radio host laughs, bright and incriminating; Dipper can almost imagine the toothy smile bridging the sharp panes of a face after hearing that laugh. “We have all been scientists at one point or another.”  </p><p>The hair on Dipper’s arms prickles. He came to Gravity Falls due to the surplus of supernatural sightings. Following such a phenomenon extended a certain amount of leniency, but either way, he hadn’t expected to be immediately targeted. He stops his car at a red light. Waiting there, the empty cartons which formerly housed Chinese takeout bounce against the open boxes piled upon his passenger seat. He watches several squirrels skitter across the road, then a cross-eyed goat.</p><p>The car radio continues chattering. “Why has he come here? Why his intricate and purposeful tattoos? Why does he frown upon hearing his description broadcast over the radio?” Dipper flinches; he doesn’t mean to, intends to remain distant and unemotional—like Ford—but best intentions are far too easily laid awry. The radio host laughs again; like nails on a chalkboard. “If anyone’s curious, and I’m sure you all are, he has teeth like a military cemetery, though his hair could use a quick chop—our current station intern could likely do something about that.” The light turns green but Dipper doesn’t move. He can’t figure out if his natural paranoia is turning this into a threat or not. “Mable has quit her weekend hours at Gideon’s House of Hair due to personal reasons,” Dipper can almost hear the eyebrow waggle in that statement. “But is willing to offer her experience, limited though it is, to anyone who wishes to brave inciting our local psychic’s wrath.” </p><p>On Dipper’s dashboard, the electric charge hangs dangerously low, but he refuses to stop and charge when within moments he will arrive at his destination. Behind Dipper’s cramped car, a truck honks impatiently. He quickly turns the corner, swearing under his breath. In his rear-view, a graffiti tagged truck darts past, emblems of hieroglyphics and supernatural creatures tangled across the paint.</p><p>“Remember folks,” the radio host chirps. “Lil’ Gideon ain’t so little anymore. These days he tends to carry blood-splattered instruments instead of voodoo dolls.”</p><p>The radio crackles. “And now, the weather!” </p><p>Only half listening at this point as he searches for nonexistent signposts, Dipper doesn’t recognize how strange that statement is until he pulls up to the curb, a tall brick building towering above; the rusty walls exude dust, the ivy a consuming mess. Across the radio waves, a strange song, lyrics oddly reminiscent of the twinkling night sky, begins to play. </p><p>Dipper doesn’t know how long he waits there; ears caught upon the charmed stream of sound. When it ends, he blinks, opens his door, and steps out onto the cracked pavement, litter scattering in the breeze.</p><p>From the radio behind him, the voice still chatters. “In any case, this has been fun, folks! Stay electrically insane and tell me about all your criminal activities—be they original or insinuated, tomorrow! This has been Bill Cipher, your resident radio host. Sweet dreams, Gravity Falls,” he says, voice dropping to a deep growl. “Sweet dreams.”</p><p>------------------ </p><p>Head spinning with images, Bill flicks the red switch and goes off air. He hasn’t halted a broadcast short in decades, but the face slathered across his vision coats his third eye with a dizzying amount of information: young yet worn, scruffy and intelligent, dog tags falling out the front of his hoodie, boxes stacked till they scrape the roof of his car, books on the paranormal and mythological peering from where packing tape has faltered, tattoos ornate against his skin. Gifted with this glimpse, the taste of Bill’s curiosity is like honeyed mice, crunchy between his teeth; anticipation sweet as a cliff-side drop. </p><p>Mable bursts through the recording booth door, a mass of curls obscuring her face. “Bill, do you know if we are taking any more interns?” She asks, pacing impatiently across the ragged carpet, floorboards protesting against her whirlwind. “Has Station Management contacted you about—” Mable cuts herself off, hand plastered across her mouth, sincerity bleeding outward from her freckled face. “I forgot you were on air,” she whispers, stricken. </p><p>“Not anymore, Shooting Star,” Bill smirks as he twirls out from behind the dangling station mic. “There’s something I need to take care of first, you’re on station duty tonight!” he says, flicking her in the forehead with a checker painted nail. </p><p>“But I—but you—” Mable sputters, sweater sleeves falling down her flailing arms; a cascade of pen-stained rainbow yarn. “You didn’t even answer my question—” </p><p>The door slams before he catches her protest’s conclusion. Snagging his top hat from where it waits on a hook in the corridor, and cane from where it leans below, Bill laughs. With a jaunty skip, he vaults down the stairs. Smoothing the tails of his suit, he enters the foyer, steadfastly ignores Waddles where the pig sits on the front desk, a bruise-eyed Pacifica Northwest awaiting his porcine attention, and flicks the front doors open with a boisterous wave.</p><p>“Excuse me.” </p><p>Bill halts, one foot out the door, cane poised. Ordinarily he would attempt to disobey on principle, but there is something about Pacifica’s jewel-encrusted, ice-lacquered expectation that drills the words like an occult command into his skull. Her sheer ability to demand cannot be understated; it costs immense irritation to his every-day existence. </p><p>“Mr. Cipher, are you in any position to know whether Station Management is currently hiring?” She asks, sunglasses glinting jaggedly across her nose, blue pantsuit crisp against the stations cluttered disrepair.</p><p>Bill taps his cane in a harsh staccato against the floorboards, skin itching with the urge to move; demonic flames trapped between bone and muscle. “. . . why do you want to know?” He finally drawls, tongue snapping the words like gum between his teeth. </p><p>Pacifica doesn’t blink; eyeing the smooth surface of her impeccable nails with studied disinterest. “I know an individual who is interested—”</p><p>“Cut the jargon, Icecube,” Bill interrupts, his agitation swinging out in full force. “Melt your heart already and get to the point, before I exit through this alarmingly convenient door.” He gestures toward the tantalizing temptation of warped glass and fine ebony with a gloved hand; fingers stretching unconsciously outward before he stows them neatly within his waistcoat pockets.</p><p>Pacifica bites her lip. “I refuse to make a deal with you.”</p><p>“Then don’t; I have enough to keep track of anyway,” Bill lies, the mere mention sending fumes of untapped wrath seething through his mind. Oh, the horrors he would unleash upon the unsuspecting universe if he could enter the mindscape again . . .</p><p>Pacifica nods, unwilling to deny the gift of his nonchalance. Clever girl. “I desire to be employed at the Radio Station as an Intern.”</p><p>“Not chief of our Former-Billionaire position? I hear two seats just opened up, under a similar name—”</p><p>“Pacifica, are you still there?” Mable calls, rushing down the steps in a flurry of neon sneakers. “I tried to bring the situation up with Bill but he—” she stops, staring between the both of them, jaw loose. </p><p>From atop her desk, Waddles snorts.</p><p>Bill grins, and tips his hat; lascivious to the core. “What, darlin’?” </p><p>She scowls at him, and jabs a plaster-swollen finger at him. “You locked the door on me.”</p><p>Bill winks. “All part of the job, Shooting Star,” he cackles, something like hysteria rising in his throat. Time never used to be an issue—but that was before he was confined to the limitations of the physical realm without the majority of his power. Now, urgency rules his thoughts.</p><p>Mable pays him no mind. “Did you get the job?” She asks Pacifica, bouncing across the room to hover beside the former-heiress. From across the room, it was unnoticeable but standing so near, Mable’s newfound height creates a hilarious looming effect. Bill never fails to bring it up at the Town Meetings.</p><p>Pacifica nods, a slight smile turning the corners of her mouth upward. She doesn’t so much as attempt to feign aloofness with Mable, Bill notices. </p><p>“Mr. Cipher—” </p><p>“Call him Bill, Pacifica.” Mable interrupts. “I swear he won’t mind.” </p><p>“Actually, you just assume that. I think some titles would help straighten this place out considerably,” Bill smirks. “Perhaps, Supreme Overload of the Universe, or Dreaded—”</p><p>Mable and Pacifica exchange a glance. “Bill it is,” Pacifica says, comprehension flowing strong as a livewire between them.</p><p>Channeling every woeful teenager, Bill remembers tempting, he sighs. No one ever takes his suggestions seriously anymore. You get tricked one time and look what happens . . . eternal suffering—in the form of minion disrespect no less.</p><p>------------------ </p><p>Backpack slung over a shoulder and a tattered box of books cradled in his arms, Dipper clambers up the apartment building stairs. With his sole available finger, he flicks the door handle downward, shoving it open with his shoulder once he hears the following click. After emailing back and forth with his landlord a few times, Dipper had swiftly realized Gravity Falls had a different concept of tenant safety than he was familiar with—such as leaving his key in an unlocked office, tucked into the strawberry plant hanging above a coffee-stained desk. </p><p>His door is just ahead; number 1b. Without the descriptive emails from the landlord, Dipper likely wouldn’t have found it, since none of the others are labelled with the same alphanumeric system. </p><p>Box tucked painfully under his chin, Dipper fumbles in his pocket for the key. After a moment, he unearths it—and for the first time sees the hieroglyphics carved into the dull surface. None are recognizable; a distinct abnormality given that the majority of his brief stint in university was spent cataloguing any useful details connected to archaic paranormal activities, tombs, or archaeology. In any case, he has books upon books of ancient languages to scour before true desperation sets in.  </p><p>Not to mention the journals . . . </p><p>Dipper shuts that thought down immediately and attempts to unlock his door. He doesn’t know the nature of the supernatural which have clustered within Gravity Falls. It is best to keep certain things out of mind—thus, out of sight. </p><p>The key sticks in the lock, refusing to turn. </p><p>Dipper gives in to the inevitable and sets his box on the floor, trying to avoid spider carcasses and cobwebs, but ensnaring a handful through his fingers regardless. This is what happens when you travel the world; you end up in places no one else wants to remember exist— </p><p>Dipper crouches down to better wrestle with the key. </p><p>“Howedee do, wotcher doing here stranger?” A voice like a bucket of overturned nails scatters through the corridor; jaunty and incomprehensible. “I heard over th’ radio that someone new had entered town and—yow-ee!” As Dipper turns to face his likely neighbour, the stranger flinches. </p><p>“Sorry, sir,” he tries vainly to soothe; hands up and empty. “I’m your new neighbour. Dipper Pines?”</p><p>“McGucket,” the strange man mutters, shielding his face—not that he has much to shield with his scraggly beard and floppy-brimmed, patchwork hat. He is wearing some sort of contraption around his eyes, similar to glasses but with only one lens, vibrantly green. One of his hands is wrapped in tattered bandages far past the wrist, and his nose looks likely to fall off his face it stretches so long but otherwise there is nothing extraordinary about him. McGucket seems half-insane, but like every other half-insane person, reasonable if you respect his rights as a human being. </p><p>Dipper smiles, and stretches out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” </p><p>Warily, as if Dipper houses snapping turtles within his fingernails, McGucket shakes his outstretched hand. “Likewise,” he says, skittering away from Dipper down the hall, lightbulbs flickering in his wake. Dipper turns back toward his door, but before he can get back to work, McGucket calls down the hallway: “Stay away from the Dog Park until yeh know better—and buy som’a’those bloodstones down at the convenience store. They’ll keep unwanted guests a’ bay.”</p><p>Slowly Dipper nods, not wanting to seem unappreciative. He came here to study the supernatural, to catalogue and solve the problems of this isolated mountain town, but he promised Ford a long time ago that he’d keep himself safe while doing so. He’s never heard of Bloodstones before but every place has its tricks . . . those seem like a good place to start.</p><p>------------------ </p><p>After a good ten minutes wrestling with the key, and finally nearly shoving his door open with a good shoulder lunge, Dipper doesn’t bother unloading the rest of his stuff. After checking all the windows are locked, he leaves the box of books on his barren counter and sets out to find the suggested bloodstones, excitement crisp within his veins.  </p><p>According to the town’s online map, the nearest convenience store is on the corner two streets over—fortunately for his near non-existent battery charge. However, according to google, that same store closed down several decades ago due to the owner’s joint murder. Something about teenagers was run in the local paper but nothing further than that. </p><p>McGucket doesn’t seem to be the most reputable source of info, but then again, neither does Dipper. He generally has nothing academic to back up his knowledge, much less a university degree. He barely finished high school because Ford insisted upon a near constant state of travel, rarely gets paid for the work he does, and lives out of clothes he pilfered from lost and founds across the country. The only things of importance he owns are his books, and his car—a phantasmal client’s version of payment. </p><p>The convenience store is called Dusk 2 Dawn, only his phone keeps wanting to autocorrect it to Duck 2 Dawn—which given the state of the place, seems halfway appropriate. Dipper uneasily navigates the parking lot on foot. Avoiding shards of glass, stray electrical cables, and roofing shingles best as he can, the flashlight on his phone only illuminates so much, but it certainly illuminates the ‘CONDEMNED’ sign plastered to the front doors. </p><p>“This is fine,” Dipper says, trying to peer through the dancing shadows and into the store without accidentally slicing his neck open. “I really don’t know how McGucket thought this place was still open,” he mutters to himself. “It looks like it was closed sometime in the nineties—” </p><p>“WHO ARE YOU?” </p><p>Dipper jumps. He might shriek. It’s dark, he’s alone in a strange town and he was not expecting ghosts; shrieking is part of that package. After all, not everyone can be perfect Stanford Pines, master of observation. The ghosts floating before him are be-speckled, apron-clad, and elderly. From a logistical standpoint, they don’t look frightening at all once you get past the initial jump scare. </p><p>Dipper stifles a sigh; point six thousand and twenty why Ford considers him weak. “I’m Dipper. Who are you?” </p><p>“MR. AND MRS. DUSKERTON. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” </p><p>“I was told you have bloodstones at your store. I need a . . . few.” </p><p>The ghosts glance at one another. “YOU ARE A STRANGER,” Mrs. Duskerton states.  </p><p>Dipper doesn’t realize it is a question until the silence has begun to stretch. “Yes,” he answers, fiddling with his phone. </p><p>“WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT THE BLOODSTONES?” </p><p>Dipper opens his mouth—then considers the potential consequences. “Are you going to hurt them if I tell you?” He asks, suspicious. </p><p>“NO,” Mrs Duskerton denies.  </p><p>“THE IDENTITY OF THE TRAITOR IS IRRELEVANT,” her husband insists. </p><p>Within the pit of Dipper’s stomach, a question uncurls. “Then why do you want to know?” </p><p>“TO LURE THE TRAITOR INTO OUR STORE AND FRY EVERY SMIDGEN OF SENSE FROM THEIR BRAIN,” the ghosts intone in unison, eyes shifting to mirrors of white. </p><p>“I don’t think there’s much left to begin with,” Dipper mutters. </p><p>“WHAT WAS THAT?” Mr. Duskerton asks, wafting closer, the scent of salt and stale sweat thick within his incorporeal form. </p><p>“I was just saying that since I don’t know their name right now, perhaps you could sell me those bloodstones, and I could find it later.” Behind his back, Dipper crosses his fingers. </p><p>The ghosts do not hesitate. “AGREED. THE BLOODSTONES ARE IN AISLE FOUR, NEAR THE BACK,” Mr. Duskerton says, the edges of his form already fading.  </p><p>“DON’T LOITER,” his wife adds, and they promptly vanish. </p><p>Dipper weaves his hand through the door where panes of glass used to glimmer, and opens it just enough to slip through. He doesn’t doubt that this interaction could pose a bit of an issue in the future, given that he has no intention of fulfilling any such agreement, but for now, he is content to step around fallen shelves, clusters of forgotten cans, and out of date election memorabilia. Every so often the lights flicker along the ceiling, a subtle reminder that the ghosts are waiting—trapped here until he solves their mystery. </p><p>Dipper smiles at the thought. He’s been in Gravity Falls for less than an hour, and already it is better than he dared to expect. </p><p>------------------- </p><p>The scientist is either far more prepared and conscious of the paranormal than a human should be, or extremely oblivious, Bill decides from where he is perched high in a tree. Across the street, the scientist has newly vanished within the Dusk 2 Dawn convenience store. Though he is still gathering details about the stranger, considering this interaction alone, Bill is impatient to probe his mind, to glimpse his dreams, to— </p><p>A vision overtakes his sight so quickly, Bill barely has time to clamp his arms around the tree branch, his last conscious thought repelling the potential of breaking bones; once was enough. Within the span of a second, his powers are scorching through him, aching to be used; to be free to dream again. Images fold like infinite origami across his untethered mind.</p><p>Grappling gun.</p><p>White and blue cap.</p><p>A familiar journal.</p><p>Rainbow knit sweater.</p><p>A constellation blazing through his thoughts.</p><p>With the last snippet still imprinted across his retina, Bill rockets back into his head, stomach heaving in protest. Twice in one night; that hasn’t happened since he was first snared. Distantly, Sixer’s patronising voice appears, speedily listing scientific methods: acknowledge the outlier, categorize the element of surprise, whatever remains however improbable is the answer—</p><p>And Bill knows all of that. Knew from the moment he first glimpsed the scientist mid-broadcast that something was shifting. Earthquakes should be trembling with warning because somehow this scientist is going to change everything. Bill doesn’t know how yet, but that’s alright; he loves a challenge.</p><p>--------- </p><p>Bloodstones in hand, Dipper returns to his apartment. He plugs his car in to charge in the tiny garage, and reluctantly begins the long process of unloading. There really isn’t that much, it’s just a matter of available hands and strength. Dipper can carry two boxes at most—and only if they’re not books, which, unfortunately, is the majority of his possessions. Given the size of his car, he shipped the lab equipment. According to the website it should arrive within the next two weeks, but until then he can study the town, catalogue supernatural occurrences, and familiarize himself with the locals. </p><p>Unloading takes far longer than it should, and a bit more noise than he expected due to the lack of an elevator within the building, but no one complains so when Dipper is finally finished, he counts it as a win. </p><p>Sprawled across the floor, chest heaving for breath, Dipper survey’s the cracked plaster, moulding ceiling, and paint chipped window frames. Aside from his boxes, there isn’t any furniture in the apartment; the little he has having been shipped with the lab equipment.</p><p>After a few minutes, Dipper pulls himself upright and heads to the ramshackle stove. In his lone pot, he heats up some water and boils pasta; the one food source he is never without. When it’s drained, he fries the mess in olive oil. Ideally, he would have parmesan with this, just enough to taste, but cheese rarely survives moving across the country. </p><p>Hunched over the counter, eating straight from the pot, Dipper nearly falls asleep right then and there; the stress of the day finally catching up. He leaves the pot in the sink, oily snippets coating the sides, and checks the locks one last time. The windows are bare, but hopefully the lack of blinds will wake him early. There’s a lot he intends to catch up on; and always less time than he would like before another mystery drags him across the country.</p><p>Dipper scavenges through several boxes before he finds his sleeping bag. Spreading it cosily between stacks of his boxes, Dipper is asleep within moments. </p><p>----------------- </p><p>The east-side apartment building reeks of sulphur. Uncaring, Bill checks his bowtie in the grubby office window. His physical form is almost familiar these days—give it another millennia and he’ll rival Narcissus. He hates mirrors, regardless. Why humans want a piece of bejewelled glass to reinforce their damaging opinions is beyond him.</p><p>He scuffs his boot against the apartment stoop, spinning his top hat from finger to finger, before tossing it into the space above his head. If his fellow demons could see him now, they would smash his bones for such hesitancy. As would Sixer . . .</p><p>Revulsion seethes within Bill’s stomach. When he escapes, that smarmy know-it-all will get what he deserves—mainly a lifetime of boredom, with a side of inescapable torture. Proper Prometheus having his liver pecked out by an eagle and then regrown, stuff.</p><p>And given the facts, this new scientist might be the key to that.</p><p>Hips swinging, Bill strides toward the door. He doesn’t spare a thought for the locks; what obstacle could they pose to him? He ignores the part of his head snidely suggesting he simply blast the door in, and crouches to peer through the keyhole. There would be no point in calling himself a demon if he couldn’t pick a lock whenever he had the urge.</p><p>Around his eye, the series of spring-loaded pins narrow from a labyrinth into diagrams; solutions laid before his ever-watching eye. It’s a little trick he developed after reading a few manuals on general lock assembly—and has come in handy, far too often to admit. Thoughts pleasantly busy as his fingers attempt to pick the lock, Bill smirks. Why anyone would believe they could keep him away with a flimsy thing like that— </p><p>Bill is thrown back against the sidewalk, head cracking wetly against the concrete. With a groan, he props himself up on an elbow. Idly he pokes his skull, bones aching—his finger comes away painted crimson. </p><p>Stupefied, he stares at the blood dripping from his hand. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t even entirely certain it could before now. As an incorporeal demon, pain wasn’t an option. Initially shackles had constricted the world into three, inconsequential dimensions; power draining from his skin; knowledge from his mind. Yet so far, the worst consequence was the absence of an escape route.  </p><p>Flaring with wrath, Bill vaults to his feet. “HOW DARE YOU!” He thunders, sidewalk rupturing under the weight of his footsteps. </p><p>The door remains impassive. </p><p>“I AM A GOD AMONG MORTALS, YOU CANNOT COMPREHEND THE SCOPE OF MY TRUE FORM, THE MAJESTY OF MY POWER—” Bill cuts himself off, incensed that he forgot to guard his words. Out in the open like this, anyone might be listening. Anyone meaning a surplus of potential beings—none of which are the one he wants to rage against. His ensnarer; the initiator of his torment, long deceased. </p><p>Atop the neighbouring rail-iron fence, a squirrel chitters. With a snap of his fingers, Bill sends the vermin flying into the night. This whole escapade was shaping up to be an insult; first Mable and Pacifica doubted him, now this damned building was attempting to restrict access— </p><p>He staggers, sight splitting with a third vision. </p><p>Cracked plaster walls.  </p><p>Packing boxes torn open to reveal the worn covers of books. </p><p>A pot abandoned in the sink, greasy with oil. </p><p>Cobwebs tangled across a bathroom mirror. </p><p>An untidy head of hair burrowed into the folds of a sleeping bag. </p><p>Shadow skimmed skin; ink dark as blood against the moonlight. </p><p>Bill snaps back into the moment; thoughts heavy with promise. If not tonight, then tomorrow he will interrogate and discover the reason this scientist has increased his power supply. Beginning with his purpose on entering Gravity Falls, his name, and general life story—it'll doubtless be a quick mind probe. However, should the human react badly and end up a slobbering mess, Bill doesn’t doubt that Mable can help hide a body. She’s done it before—albeit unknowingly.</p><p>Mind made up; Bill settles down to wait.</p><p>He lasts forty minutes.</p><p>---------------- </p><p>It is afternoon when Dipper next wakes, sun streaming across his face, stomach ravenous. After a quick online search, he finds Greasy’s Diner; quaint and rustic, only a few blocks away because small towns have no concept of adding on to what is already established, and gives in to the inevitable. In the rush to find his keys, crack a window to let some fresh air inside, and find a clean pair of jeans, his only consistent thought is a plea that this place is not run by ghosts as well. There is only so much paranormal activity Dipper can handle before two o’clock in the afternoon. </p><p>Car sufficiently charged overnight, Dipper arrives at the Diner just as the main lunch crowd are leaving. As he holds the door open, he glimpses the faces of several elderly patrons, a group of bikers in red leather, and a trio of heavily bruised teenagers as they pass by; flannel torn, skateboards in hand. </p><p>The bell chimes brightly as the door slams shut behind him. A waitress behind the counter looks up from where she is wiping the counter. “Sit down anywhere you like,” she says, accent tugging at her words. “I will be with you in a moment.” </p><p>Dipper scans the Diner—despite being located within the confines of an old train car there is a surprising amount of space—and stows himself neatly into a corner booth, back against the wall. The seating choice is Ford’s habit, so naturally most people consider it the height of rudeness. Dipper didn’t discover that until he was working solo and several people called him out on it. However, since according to books, manners are taught to children by their parents, Dipper only has to play the orphan card and their faces shift from outraged to pitying. Both expressions earn him a lot of unwanted attention, so he tries to steer clear of that eventuality at all costs. </p><p>The waitress starts moving in his direction, hands pushing her large glasses further up her tiny nose. Dark hair tucked neatly into a hair net, apron tied twice around her tiny waist, the closer she steps toward Dipper’s table, the more she looks to be around his age; her absence of height a distracting factor from reality. </p><p>With a slight squeak of shoes against tile, she comes to a halt before his table, notebook flipped to a fresh page; pen at the ready. The name pinned to her apron is Candy Chiu. “What can I get for you today, sir?” She asks, patiently efficient.</p><p>Ordinarily Dipper would strike up conversation with the waitress; get the lay of the land so to speak—but right now his stomach is his first priority.</p><p>He leans forward, elbows sticky where he unthinkingly propped them against the table. “Do you make pancake platters?”</p><p>------------------- </p><p>Bill arrives at the radio station, incensed. Someone needs to burn today, he has decided. Whether that be Waddles, Mable, or her dear great uncle who is so delightfully easy to rile up, it doesn’t matter. It simply needs to happen otherwise mountain-side explosions are next on the list. </p><p>The station looms against the surrounding neighbourhood, tidy homes and businesses swamped by the sheer monstrous height. The station parking lot is empty aside from the old bike rack he is certain the town children use solely for theft purposes. </p><p>He kicks in the door without a thought, leaving a spiderweb fracture across the glass. “Guess who showed up to play, Mable?” He shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth, scowl bridging his face. “Your dear, beloved Gideon is outside!” </p><p>The station rings eerily silent. </p><p>Bill turns the station upside down—in an unfortunately, non-literal burst of chaotic energy. Despite being an alarmingly punctual person, his scatter-brained station intern is nowhere to be found. There are signs of her ingrained into the station; sweaters and yarn tangled across the break room sofa, packets of candy and hot coca overflowing the coffee cupboard, the walls are luminous with speckles of her paint; occasional murals overtaking the bloody crimson he abandoned out of sheer boredom halfway down the stairs. There are glitter glazed bowls, and treats for Waddles in her desk, stickers of knives and skulls tucked into the mug beside his white board detailing exactly how he plans to dominate the world upon release, and the silence in her absence is stifling. </p><p>Bill never realized before how much he hates silence. Hates the emptiness of it; the consuming edge that smoothers his every thought with panic. The itchiness that swelters his skin with paranoia, an incessant need to move and react and know others exist; that he is not alone; that to be alone is something he narrowly averted— </p><p>Narrow as a knife point. </p><p>If he were still able to dream, he would have nightmares about that eternity. The endless boredom; the silence which would linger and slowly creep inward—until he disappeared into the very nothingness of it. </p><p>Bill peers outside the door. Across the street several neighbourhood hooligans bounce a ball against the Valentino’s sleek new hearse. On the porch of the funeral home, a raccoon rifles through the mail scattered across the family’s doormat. </p><p>Excellent. He can mope in comfort now that his nonexistence fears have been alleviated. </p><p>Limping dramatically, his cane wobbling beneath him, Bill stumbles towards the front desk. “Woe is me!” He cries, slumping into Mable’s desk chair; several mugs and sweaters dislodging themselves from within the folds as he does so. With one long-legged kick against the file cabinet, he sends himself whirling across the foyer. As the world picks up its pace, the dizzying rotation increasing steadily, Bill picks idly at the unicorn stickers plastered up the chair arms. After his initial entrapment, he had thoughtlessly attempted to enslave everyone within Gravity Falls—but that only lasted a week before he grew bored. Memories were easily wiped and ever since he has been toying with their owners. </p><p>Agitated, he runs a hand through his hair; top hat impervious where it hovers overhead the spinning chair. Shooting Star would never have stood for that. Perhaps, when she was little, she was easier to distract but that kid has creativity enough to power the multiverse. Her imagination springs full force against any form of resistance and irritating though it is when he faces against it, directing that onslaught against an unsuspecting citizen? Priceless. </p><p>Bill huffs. If only she’d show up to distract him— </p><p>The door jingles; an old pop song blaring through the sound system Mable had rigged up three years ago when Bill had furiously incinerated the last bell. “Shooting Star, how are you—” Bill cuts himself off, frowning. </p><p>Pacifica Northwest stands in the doorway. Sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket of her pantsuit; frostily unamused. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Bill asks, halting his momentum with a snap of fingers. </p><p>“Do you ever listen when Mable talks?” Pacifica counters, mint bubble-gum popping between her teeth. </p><p>Bill rolls his eyes. “Always, duh,” he says, bouncing out of Mable’s chair to approach Pacifica with proper grandeur. His cane leaps to his fingers without a thought, the skull turning to watch her as he nears; saunter easy, heels clicking sharply against the floorboards.</p><p>Pacifica raises an eyebrow. These humans and their micro-expressions. It almost makes him jealous.</p><p>“What?” He asks, after the silence has stretched for a second longer than he can handle; the chairs distant wobbling the only reason he hasn’t begun to shriek yet. “You’re a station intern now so I get to order you around. Speak. Tell me what she said that I walked out during—and for your information,” he jabs a finger in her face. “It was incredibly important. Not that you should doubt my word to begin with.” </p><p>Maybe employing a new station intern was a good idea. He failed to impress upon Mable his capability when she first signed up, now he has a second chance. Tiny little humans have such imaginative brains to toy with . . .</p><p>Pacifica blows a bubble.</p><p>Bill taps his cane against the floorboards, smiling falsely. Perhaps there is something to be said for utter and complete annihilation. He did that to her parents after all, vanished them into another dimension through a clever little spell Mable found. The thought lingers on the tip of his tongue, insistent and easy and just waiting for him to reach out a finger and touch—</p><p>Pacifica pops her bubble. “Mable needed the afternoon off. She had some errands to run for Mr. Pines—”</p><p>“You mean, Old Man Stan,” Bill corrects, eyes flashing.</p><p>“I really don’t,” Pacifica says, chin lifting to meet his own.</p><p>Bill laughs. No one can best him in a game of stubbornness, not even Mable Pines. “Suit yourself, Popsicle. But in the meantime, you’ll clean the station—top to bottom, including roof shingles. I want no stone unturned, no pawprint unwiped!” He pauses, waiting for the outburst; waiting for the wrath from on high to blaze through her—</p><p>Pacifica only scowls, her mouth pinched into a thin line. </p><p>Bill sighs, and summons the desk chair behind him. With a heave of shoulders, he slumps backwards into its cushiony depths, several stickers fluttering to the floor. “None of you are any fun, these days. I remember what it used to be like—” </p><p>“Murder and mayhem?” Pacifica quips, icily. </p><p>Bill grins, and spins himself once around. “Yep,” he says with a pop. “Now, I’ll supervise until two o’clock, because I need to get on the air today at some point. It’s going to be fantastic,” he groans sarcastically.</p><p>“You don’t really mind, do you,” Pacifica says; it isn’t a question. Bill keeps spinning, round and round regardless; if they never see you hesitate, they can never know they’re right. Pacifica takes no notice, striding purposefully across the foyer, her heels echoing like bullets. “You broadcast because your powers are somehow tied into this station. Into the creativity and dedication this station enforces. You can’t hate that,” she snaps, bright and glacial.  </p><p>Bill has watched her grow up, watched and laughed as she and Mable disagreed throughout most of their childhood; delighted in the fury Pacifica was able to summon; a hurricane crouching untamed within her throat.  </p><p>“Not when it gives back some of what was taken,” she finishes, the final viper strike; meant to immobilize, meant to leave you dizzy and wondering while she slithered away, who had truly emerged victorious. </p><p>“You should shack up with Gideon,” Bill sneers to her retreating back. “You’d get on like a house on fire.” </p><p>------------- </p><p>Stomach finally satisfied after engulfing his second platter; Dipper allows himself to relax. He flags down the waitress, Candy Chui, with his empty coffee mug. </p><p>“How’re you doing?” She asks, still drying her hands on her apron as she walks over. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”</p><p>“Just a bit of information.” Dipper rubs the back of his neck. “I’m new in town and I wanted to know if there was anything in particular you’d suggest visiting.”</p><p>Candy tucks her notebook into an apron pocket, tapping her pen idly against her chin. “We are not a typical tourist town, so forgive me if my advice is,” she frowns, considering her words carefully. “Unsalvageable? Yes, unsalvageable.”</p><p>“Give me the first five things off the top of your head then,” Dipper suggests. “And the cheque if you don’t mind. I really need to stop eating before I explode.”</p><p>Candy laughs lightly; gathering up his dishes with a smile. “A common problem according to our customers.”</p><p>A regular stream of regular customers; a veritable gossip pool of informants. Beneath the table, Dipper crosses his fingers. So long as this conversation goes well . . . </p><p>“What would you say is the best course of action to defeat said impulse?” He asks, trying away his spare notebook and pen before she can glimpse her name scrawled across the open page.</p><p>“I suggest returning tomorrow,” Candy says, grinning. “All our regulars will readily confirm the success of that plan. But before I forget, that list of yours . . .” she hums. There are tiny pinpricks of ink scattered down her neck. “I’d suggest visiting the Mystery Shack, our town Mini-Golf and Arcade Fun Complex, the Radio Station—”</p><p>“Actually, I meant to ask about that,” Dipper interrupts. “I caught some of last night’s broadcast as I drove in and it was,” he hesitates, uncertain judgemental he can afford to be. Small town communities have a different concept of newcomers, and he would rather not be immediately shunned. “. . . strange?”</p><p>Candy Chui nods. “Bill Cipher is unique, and that’s one of his better epithets—” she cuts herself off; face paling. “Sorry, sir. I don’t get paid to chat. If that’ll be all, I will fetch your cheque.”</p><p>Slowly Dipper shakes his head, uncertain what exactly had changed. Surely the radio station wasn’t a source of supernatural activity . . . though perhaps, given the psychic mentioned on the broadcast last night, any prior knowledge of his arrival had more to do with this Gideon than the radio host himself.</p><p>When Candy returns, clearly in a hurry, Dipper has spread his best approximation of an innocent smile across his face. “Sorry to be a bother, but do you know any good barbers in the area?”</p><p>--------------------- </p><p>Given that the waitress, Candy Chui, claimed it was located only a block away, Dipper leaves his car at the diner, and walks to the barber shop. Leaves crunching beneath his sneakers, the mountain’s shadow clings clammy to his skin. Scarcely ten minutes later, he reaches the appropriate address. Tucked into a line of shabby storefronts, the buildings should feasibly look identical, if not in appearance, then in perimeter—this is not the case. The barber shop gleams a pale blue, a tidy wrap-around porch encircling its exterior, and a glittery, illuminated sign proclaiming the shop ‘Gideon’s House of Hair’. Standing on the porch leaves a bitter, iron tang in Dipper’s mouth. </p><p>Apprehension squeezing his ribs, he enters.</p><p>He is immediately accosted by a little man in a pale blue suit. “Welcome, welcome!” He greets, the towering pompadour of his white hair eerily immobile despite the hearty handshake he has trapped Dipper in. “My name is Gideon Gleeful and I am the proprietor of this illustrious establishment. What caused you to pop into my dear lil’ shop?” The barber’s southern accent rich as molasses in his ears, Dipper can only blink, mouth fluttering uselessly. </p><p>“Not to worry, not to worry.” Gideon laughs; holiday cheer his apparent, dimpled default. “Was it for a barber appointment, or because you were slighted by someone. A co-worker perhaps? Or a sibling? I’m thinking . . . sister?” </p><p>“I don’t have a sister,” Dipper sputters, mind flooding with the potential benefits a legitimate psychic could offer to this town—not to mention his work. “I actually came here to ask you a few questions about the town. I’m new you see and—” </p><p>Gideon’s face explodes in realization. “You’re the scientist Bill Cipher mentioned last night,” he accuses, finger jabbing into Dipper’s face. </p><p>Dipper attempts to stifle his irritation. “Yes,” he admits, shortly. “Now, about those questions—” </p><p>Gideon doesn’t spare him a second glance, turning an emerald pendant over and over between his well-manicured fingers. Peering out from his jacket pocket gleam a pair of ornate scissors; crimson fingerprints staining the silver. </p><p>“Why would he express such interest in you?” Gideon glances at Dipper over his shoulder; black and beady as a rat’s. “You’re nothing. You have no magic, no immortal capability—” </p><p>“Excuse me,” Dipper interrupts, halfway to furious. Around them, the barber shop gleams with instruments, shelves of products neat where they await the financial exchange required. It is a place which would calm even the most obsessive compulsive; sterile of evidence. “I didn’t come here to be talked at. Unless you answer my questions, I’m leaving.”</p><p>Gideon only glowers at him; the blue of his suit striking Dipper’s eyes with violent intent. “When you require my services, I will find you.” </p><p>In his rush to scramble away from the shop, Dipper nearly tumbles face first down the porch stairs. The door slams behind him, but he doesn’t dare look back, stumbling along the sidewalk with jittery knees. Unsteady, he begins to stagger into the road—only to be heaved backward by a hand nabbing his elbow.</p><p>Together they topple to the ground. “So sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Dipper stammers, shoving a heavy knit scarf out of his face. He sits up, and eyes the sidewalk. There are shopping bags everywhere; unlabelled cans, stray bones, and parcels of chips scattered across his lap.</p><p>“Well, maybe next time look both ways before you cross the road?” An unfamiliar voice mutters from where they are buried beside him.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to—” Dipper starts to protest as he starts collecting the scattered shopping contents.</p><p>The lanky stranger laughs him off, the orange sleeves of her sweater neon against the cracked cement as she sits upright. “You had just exited Gideon’s Horrible House, it’s understandable,” she says, running a hand through her long hair. “I’m Mable.” </p><p>“Dipper.” A thought occurs to him. “Wait, are you Mable the intern?” </p><p>She laughs, arms full of cans. “Yep! Though as of yesterday I’m on longer the only intern.”</p><p>“. . . has that ever happened before?” Dipper asks, something about her tone tickling the back of his mind; her face unsettlingly familiar.</p><p>Mable shakes her head, curls bouncing as she lunges to catch a bag of chips before it flutters into the road. “Never! The station interns don’t have a successful record of lasting past their internship. Generally, Bill isn’t to blame. He has a bit of a lax grasp on what is dangerous to humans, at the best of times.”</p><p>You can’t confirm someone isn’t human unless you meet them. Secondhand judgement cannot be taken as infallible, Dipper reminds himself. </p><p>“Who’s all this stuff for anyway?” He can’t resist asking as he spots a jar of incredibly life-like eyeballs; their movements almost disconcerting as they follow his finger where it pokes the plastic.</p><p>“My Grunkle Stan,” Mable says, lurching to her feet; shopping bags strung along her arms like Hanukkah candles. “He runs the local Mystery Shack.” </p><p>“I’ve heard about that?” </p><p>She whirls to face him, excitement beaming outward from her grin. “Really?” </p><p>Dipper’s stomach drops. “A bit. I was asking around for places to visit. I’m new—” </p><p>“Which reminds me; Dipper, strange name. How’d you get it?” </p><p>“Just . . . loved astronomy as a kid,” Dipper lies. </p><p>Mable sends him a glance, as if she doubts the validity of his statement but before he can call her on it, her excitement is back. Paramount to her personality it seems. </p><p>“Hey, do you want me to show you around?” </p><p>“Don’t you have a job at the—” </p><p>“The new station intern is covering for me,” Mable interrupts, loading near half her bags into his arms. “Plus, Bill won’t mind. He’s always saying I bother him too much as it is . . .” </p><p>------------------- </p><p>Gravity Fall’s Mini Golf and Arcade Fun Complex looks like it jumped out of the past and into the present. The exterior is shabby and retro—out of necessity Mable informs Dipper. The lobby is a chipped sea of black and white tiles, alley-cats yowling at the knees of every distracted inhabitant. Across the sound system, a tinny rendition of the Star Wars theme plays on loop. Even the air is stale; the scent of sweat and spilled slushies creating a liminal space of infinite afternoon. </p><p>A bulky man in cargo shorts, a ball cap, and an overlarge t-shirt approaches them, before Mable has lurched two feet across the tile. </p><p>“Mable!” He shouts, hefty arms engulfing her into a hug. </p><p>Mable only laughs, squeezing twice as tightly if the man’s crimson painted face is anything to go off. With a last pat to his back, the question mark spanning his shirt newly wrinkled, she turns to Dipper. “Soos, this is Dipper, you know, the scientist.” </p><p>Soos scratches his head, ballcap dislodged. “I thought—” </p><p>“It’s a figure of speech. Bill does not have a monopoly on words, Soos!” Mable shouts, gesturing widly. “Expand your horizons, become the man this town needs you to be. Revolution is not the answer, it is the question and the answer is . . . come on, Soos, don’t leave me hanging . . .” </p><p>“The answer,” Soos scratches his head again. “Is, um . . . assent?” </p><p>“What’s a simpler form of assent, Soos?” Mable prompts. </p><p>“. . . yes?” </p><p> “Yes!” Mable shouts, pumping her fist in the air. “Anyway, Soos, my dude. Do you have any spare mini-golf equipment?” </p><p>“Sure do.” </p><p>“What about space on your course?” </p><p>Soos hesitates. “That I’ll have to check. One second—” </p><p>From out of the back door, a family storms; children shrieking, the parents furious. </p><p>“Our Matthew nearly took his brother’s eye out with one of your golf clubs!” The mother shouts, brandishing her poke-a-dot purse like a vat of medieval oil. “I demand we receive a refund!” </p><p>Soos draws himself up to his full height. “Now, ma’am,” he says, unthreatening but polite. “None of you were hurt—” </p><p>Mable’s hand is tight against his spindly forearm as she drags him around the squabbling family and toward the rack of equipment. With an ear-splitting grin, she loads his arms with clubs, throws a bag of golf-balls over his shoulder, and sets a blue and white cap upon his head; the emblem of a pine tree stark against the white. </p><p>“You can keep the hat,” she whispers to him conspiratorially as they slip through the back door and out onto the course. “That’s on me.” </p><p>----------------- </p><p>After Mable wins—by one point, Dipper is quick to reiterate—she sneaks them through the door marked ‘Employee’s only’ and into the shop’s back room. While the Arcade and Mini Gold course are retro to the point of insanity, the back room is cluttered with modern conveniences. A gargantuan tv is mounted to a wall, cartoons flickering across its muted screen; a tattered couch stationed like a fortress before it. Across the room crates of unopened electronics are scattered, each repurposed to be thrones for the numerous lava lamps that light the room—threatening death by fiery inferno. </p><p>Mable gestures to the room at large, striding purposefully toward the two doors along the far wall. “Make yourself at home, Soos won’t mind.” </p><p>“Where are you going?” He calls after her vanishing form. </p><p>“To get snacks. And juice,” she calls from within the cramped quarters of what might be a kitchen, or possibly a pantry. He can’t be entirely sure either way. “Did you want anything?” </p><p>“Coffee?” </p><p>“Coming right up!” Mable calls cheerfully. </p><p>There follows an alarming amount of noise for snack fetching; the rattle of kitchen utensils, a blender, and incessant chopping a soundtrack ladening Dipper’s chest with apprehension. When she finally re-enters the room, a box of cookies under her arm, and twin mugs emblazoned with video game graphics, in hand. </p><p>She hands the leftmost to Dipper. Stomach seething, he stares down at the green fluid, dinosaurs popping in and out of the unnameable slurry. </p><p>“Oh, sorry! I gave you my drink by accident,” Mable laughs. “It’s Mablejuice, something I created when I was eleven. Soos sells a variation here; the kids love it.” </p><p>“I can’t imagine why,” Dipper admits, quickly exchanging their mugs. As he inhales the scent of coffee, black and bitter, Mable hums. </p><p>“I think it’s the excess of sugar,” she says after a gulp, scratching at a grass stain running up the sleeve of her sweater. “How’d you get so good at Mini-Golf anyway?” </p><p>Dipper takes a sip of coffee, trying to delay the inevitable mountain of lies. “I travelled around a lot as a kid, but everywhere we went there was mini-golf.” </p><p>“Wow,” Mable exclaims. “I’d never have guessed that would be America’s uniting factor. Football maybe . . .” </p><p>Dipper grimaces. “Erg, I hope not. I had to attend a few when I joined the school newspaper in Wisconsin and there is literally nothing interesting about the game.” </p><p>“Except the hot-ness factor!” Mable chimes in. </p><p>Dipper bites his lip, staring into his coffee. He can feel her bouncing through the couch cushions. “Athletes and Cheerleaders alike.” He doesn’t look at Mable, doesn’t dare watch as her expression shifts into revulsion— </p><p>“It’s probably none of my business but was that your first time coming out?” Mable asks, curious and young in a way Dipper has never allowed himself to feel. “Because I’m getting serious panic vibes from you right now and I want to be a good friend and say all the stuff that helps me calm down, like how it’s all cool and I accept you, but I don’t want to repeat anyone else if it isn’t your first time so—” </p><p>“My Great-Uncle Ford never talks about emotions, so yeah. I never really told anyone.” Dipper cracks a smile; near euphoric from the relief surging through him. “I never thought about it before, because it didn’t matter, you know? My work is so much more important—” </p><p>“What do you do anyway?” Mable asks, scribbling on the cuff of her sweater with an ink-spewing pen. </p><p>Dipper’s heart jumps. Cover up, cover up— “Didn’t you hear?” He says. “I’m a scientist.” </p><p>Mable waves a hand. “Come on, Dippingsauce, give me some details! Bill never describes anything if he can help it.” She waggles her fingers toward Dipper’s face, imitating a B-list Hollywood apparition. “He prefers to be vague and judgemental.” </p><p>Dipper can’t help staring at her. “Dippingsauce?” </p><p>“That’s what you fixate on, really?” Mable asks, nearly capsizing her mug of mablejuice. “Not my supernatural boss with a clear obsession over you?” </p><p>Dipper flinches, nearly dropping his coffee. “What, no—he doesn’t have—why would you say that?” </p><p>Mable lurches to her feet and begins to pace. “I have evidence,” she shouts, holding her pen aloft; juice forgotten on a crate. “One; Bill never cuts his broadcast short. Usually I have to cut him off after the weather, but sometimes if he’s in a really bad mood he jabbers till dawn. Two; he’s super-duper powerful, so don’t go thinking ‘I can take him’ because you can’t. He hates arrogance, but considers humans amusing, so it’s a fine line. Three . . .” Mable hesitates. “What was this list for?” </p><p>“You were trying to prove that your boss has a—has a thing—” Dipper cuts himself off. “You know what? Never mind. We need to throw away this topic and never bring it up again.” </p><p>Mable squints at him. “Is this a side-effect of being closeted for so long?” </p><p>“I dunno,” Dipper mutters. “It could just as easily be because Ford considers me a failure.” </p><p>Mable stops pacing to stare at Dipper. “What?” </p><p>Dipper can’t look her in the eye, so he swigs another mouthful of burning coffee. </p><p>“Why would you think that?” Mable asks, slipping, silent as a mouse back into her abandoned spot on the couch. </p><p>Dipper runs a nail along the scarred table. “I’m his ward. His responsibility. I followed in his footsteps because I wanted to—” He cuts himself off, biting the words back. </p><p>“Wanted to what?” Mable prompts, softly. </p><p>“I wanted—I wanted—” He sighs. “This is going to sound so stupid.” </p><p>“Say it anyway.” </p><p>“I wanted to—to surpass him, alright?” Dipper shouts, the words a release and a weight all at once. </p><p>Mable tilts her head to one side, brows furrowing. “And do you think you have?” </p><p>Dipper stares at her. “Of course not. Ford has been doing this since before I was born. He doesn’t need to learn anymore because he knows everything there is related to our field of work.” </p><p>Mable frowns. “But isn’t the very fact that he isn’t attempting to learn a sign that you will surpass him?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You are still attempting to learn—” </p><p>“I told you, he doesn’t need to anymore. There is no more information.” </p><p>Mable shakes her head. “But you don’t believe that, do you?”  </p><p>Dipper swallows sharply, wanting to protest, wanting to defend but not having the words. </p><p>Mable grins at him, sunshine in her gap-toothed smile. “You won’t say anything against him because he has perfected the way that he approaches each problem. But just because he doesn’t believe there is anything else, doesn’t mean that you can’t evolve the way you approach your work—this would be so much easier to say if you’d only tell me what it is, hint hint!” </p><p>Dipper only shakes his head, a lump forming in his throat. “Mable, I—” he coughs, voice scratchy. “I don’t know—” </p><p>“It’s alright,” Mable says, patting his head with her ink-splattered hand. “You don’t have to voice any of that aloud.” Her face falters, pain creeping into her eyes. “I know how hard it can be to speak against your guardian. I’m not going to pressure you into that.” </p><p>Dipper tries to smile; it’s wobbly and salt-stained but it is real. “Thanks, Mable.” </p><p>She laughs, wetly. “Want to go another round? Betcha can’t beat me . . .” </p><p>A laugh sputters out of Dipper’s chest; persistent as a weed. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” </p><p>------------------------- </p><p>On their way out of the shop, they wave goodbye to Soos as he is repairing an old pinball machine, children clustered around him. Emerging from the Arcade, the autumn sun blares down upon them; Mable skipping cheerfully along the pavement even as Dipper squints against the assault of sunlight. </p><p>“Hey, do you mind coming with me to the Radio Station?” Mable asks, jostling his shoulder with her own. It sends a warm shiver down Dipper’s spine; like warm coffee on a winter day. </p><p>“I thought you said your friend was covering for you.” </p><p>“She is, but I still need to drop something off.” </p><p>Dipper grins. “Please tell me it’s your god-awful—” </p><p>“If you say sweater, we are no longer friends,” Mable interrupts, voice sharp. </p><p>“I was going to say jar of eyeball trophies actually,” Dipper says, watching her carefully. “Your sweaters are brighter than any form of eighties fashion but they look like they took a lot of time to make.”</p><p>“How’d you know I made them?”</p><p>“You just seem like the sort. Also, you have knitting needles in your hair.” </p><p>“I—what?” Mable sputters, scrabbling through her hair. </p><p>Dipper bends over laughing. “Sorry, that was a lie,” he says, Mable slapping his arm with a hand. “It was more I didn’t think you could find the sort of sweaters you make anywhere else, therefore they had to be homemade. Which brought about the question who would bother? Now, since you live with your Grunkle, and your friend doesn’t seem the type, it had to be yourself.” </p><p>Mable squints at him, playful suspicious clear across her face. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes 2.0?” </p><p>“Not quite,” Dipper laughs. “Try ghostbusters.” </p><p>“Mable’s face lights up. “Was that a clue?” </p><p>Dipper only grins. </p><p>“Seriously, Dippingsauce. Was that a clue?” She asks, bouncing around him, bags jostling where they hang from her arms.</p><p>“Come on, Mable,” Dipper says, tugging his new hat further down atop his scalp. “Lead the way to your radio station before I change my mind about accompanying you.” </p><p>-------------- </p><p>“Frosty!” Bill shouts as he leaps down the stairs. “Do you know where Shooting Star keeps the jalapeño butter? I want to see what’ll happen if I . . .” Hips swinging, he enters the foyer—and stops dead.</p><p>The station is occupied.</p><p>Cloaked in sudden shadow; Bill runs a mental hand through his hair, top hat summoned from its hook. Why didn’t he notice their entrance onto his territory, he notices all strangers—did he overlook a sign in his pursuit of the scientist? </p><p>Under the cobweb-strewn rafters, Mable Pines stands shoulder to shoulder with the scientist. Arms laden with Mable’s usual assortment of shopping bags, they are laughing together; elbows ramming into each other’s ribs with every shift of movement. Side by side, their eyes gleam with identical amusement; her freckles bouncing along his arms; his hair curling across her forehead; knees and sleeves equally grass-stained. In the back corner of his mind, a vision starts to sizzle with warning—eruption soon to occur. </p><p>No one, Bill realizes, knows the identity of the scientist—not even his twin sister. </p><p>From where she has claimed the front desk, Pacifica observes their comradery with icy fury. Bill appreciates the sentiment; it is terribly misguided. With a snap of his fingers, Bill’s cane appears before him; gleaming and golden. What humans have yet to comprehend is the importance of spontaneous embellishment—in their literature they stress it, stress the surprise of it, but throughout their daily lives they rarely invest. That is the chief difference between demons and humanity, Bill decides, as he begins to stride into the foyer; their lack of wilful, chaos. </p><p>Cane glittering in hand, Bill throws the shadow from him. “Shooting Star, mind introducing me to your . . .” He eyes the scientist from his sneakered toe to the tips of his blushing ears, enjoying the range of emotions it evokes. “. . . friend?” </p><p>Mable rolls her eyes. “Bill, this is Dipper,” she says, gesturing between the both of them. “Dipper, Bill Cipher.”</p><p>Irritated, Bill sticks his tongue out at Mable, forked and black between his fanged teeth. “You forgot, Radio Host extraordinaire,” he reminds her, amusement brimming between them even as his gaze remains caught upon the vision-familiar, hoodie clad, form of Dipper Pines who is now depositing shopping bags around his feet. </p><p>Oblivious, Mable exchanges a teasing glance with Pacifica. “Not to mention Stealer of Sanity, Human Dream Catcher, and Deity of—” </p><p>“Why won’t they speak about you?” Dipper blurts, face pinched. His voice is rougher than Bill expected; rougher and yet . . . </p><p>“Who?” He asks innocently, cane whirling across the floorboards; the gold a living snake between his fingers.</p><p>“The townsfolk,” Dipper growls—his building fury delicious like mascarpone. “They won’t tell me anything about you. Not a word.” Each sentence is accusatory; tempting Bill to peer under that hood of a skull with every syllable.</p><p>“Now, Pine Tree, it ain’t polite to accuse folks mere seconds after ya just met,” Bill drawls, a smirk tugging at his face. “At least, let me take you to dinner first.”</p><p>Dipper flushes brightly—then scowls. “Why would that—” he shakes his head fervently. “Not going to happen. You have ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t just exorcise you from that body.”</p><p>A laugh startles its way out of Bill’s throat—the first honest one in two decades. “Well now, that is forward, Pine Tree.” He saunters nearer, hips swinging. “At this rate, I should start picking out wedding rings tonight!”</p><p>Dipper’s mouth falls open. “Pine Tree?”</p><p>Bill frowns. He turns to address Pacifica, Dipper a stuttering mess in his peripheral. “Is that a normal reaction, Frosty? I forget how humans do this sort of thing.”</p><p>Pacifica ignores him. </p><p>Mable only shrugs. “He did the same thing when I called him Dippingsauce before.” She lowers her voice, whisper-hissing across the room. “I don’t think he’s used to nicknames.”</p><p>“I’m—that's unimportant.” Dipper protests. With a darkening scowl, he whirls to face Bill, brows furrowed, finger pointed. “You haven’t answered my question yet!” </p><p>Bill smirks; he licks his lip. “No, I certainly haven’t.”</p><p>Dipper glowers. “Don’t do that.”</p><p>Bill leans closer, amusement curling like warm blood down his throat. “Do what?” He asks. </p><p>Dipper’s chin raises; every line of his body determined not to back down. “That.” </p><p>Bill looks down at the human, at the blue and white cap from his visions and the stubbornness written into his bone structure. “What?” He asks again, smirking. </p><p>“The demon avoidance thing!” Dipper shouts, arms flailing. “I know what you are—” </p><p>Already? The scientist must truly live up to his epithet.</p><p>Bill doesn’t let his appreciation show; smirk sitting centre-stage. “That doesn’t mean you know how I work, kid.” </p><p>Dipper sputters. “I do—you can’t—” he straightens his shoulders and pushes the sleeves of his hoodie past his elbows. “I wasn’t joking about the exorcism. I know how to do them, and I won’t hesitate. Whoever this guy was before you—”</p><p>“Dipper, stop,” Mable interrupts. “There are side effects that come hand in hand with exorcisms if the host body isn’t prepared, right? Springing this on anyone could be detrimental, much less an unwilling candidate.” She fiddles with her sweater sleeve, running her fingers across the bright cuff. “And even if Bill is inhabiting a body, that doesn’t mean it’ll survive the exorcism.”</p><p>Dipper freezes, swallowing. “What do you mean?” He asks, warily. </p><p>Mable glances at Bill where he stands, leaning interestedly against his cane. As Dipper follows her gaze, Bill waggles his eyebrows. She better not stop now; it’s just getting interesting!</p><p>“I mean,” Mable continues cautiously. “That Bill’s been living in Gravity Falls since before anyone can remember.” She glances at Pacifica. “By anyone’s guess, he’s older than the town’s founding.”</p><p>“Aww Shooting Star, you drastically lessened the effect of that revelation,” Bill chirps, whirling his cane through his hands. “I’m older than this planet.” He laughs. “Not that this planet has been around very long—”</p><p>“Stop, stop!” Dipper shouts. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying. Then you,” he points at Bill. “Are immortal.”</p><p>“You catch on quick, kid.”</p><p>“But then why are you still here?” Dipper asks himself, frowning. “This is a tiny hotspot of supernatural phenomenon, but that doesn’t make it the place you intend to spend eternity.” He starts to pace, shopping bags overturning in his distraction. “Not to mention the fact that you elect to spend your time in a physical body, when most supernatural beings are connected to this world on a different plane of existence entirely—” </p><p>“Woah, Pine Tree.” Bill laughs; each syllable darting with abandon toward an untuned piano. “Watch that your brain doesn’t overload.”</p><p>Dipper’s eyes are bright. “Someone tricked you,” he whispers, excitement like a brand across Bill’s throat. “You’re trapped here.”</p><p>Vision splitting, Bill lurches forward, fangs bared. “And unless you want to suffer the same fate as that insignificant, traitorous welp you’d be wise to abandon this topic of conversation.”</p><p>Mable bites at her thumbnail. “What if we can—”</p><p>“Don’t test me on this, Shooting Star!” Bill hisses, his eyes narrowing to venomous slits of yellow. “Not unless you want to be decapitated.” With a swish of coat tails, he vanishes out the door.</p><p>--------------</p><p>“—you don’t understand, Mable! I’ve been all around the world—”</p><p>From behind the couch, Mable pops up, remote in hand. “And you still couldn’t lose that haircut? The tragedy!”</p><p>“No, no!” Dipper laughs, throwing popcorn at her head. “The sheer astronomical willforce of the universe to engineer this town into existence is . . . is essentially unheard of!”</p><p>Mable flops down across the couch, head tipping backwards to watch him pace across her living room. “Like my prowess with sweaters?”</p><p>“Like,” Dipper scrambles for an appropriate example. “Like winning the Olympics!”</p><p>“Some folks decide that’s what they have to do to be successful and then they do it until the attempt kills them?”</p><p>“Alright, bad example!” Dipper says, knocking a glitterified goose statue from a shelf with his gesturing. “But my point still stands. This town, Mable, is a hotbed of supernatural activity.”</p><p>“What do you think a hotbed would be like?” Mable muses, tossing jellybeans upward into her mouth. Most of her previous attempts lie scattered across the carpet. “A waterbed of lava?”</p><p>Dipper ignores her, still pacing. “Despite the overwhelming evidence, Ford has insisted I never come here. There must,” Dipper strikes his palm with a fist. “Be a reason for that. A reason for the instructions. A reason—”</p><p>“Dippingdot, not everything has a reason.”</p><p>“Ford does. He’s meticulous.”</p><p>Mable snorts. “He sounds like an—”</p><p>From the hallway between them and the kitchen, a door slams. Dipper looks to Mable; her eyes are wide.<br/>
“Your Grunkle?” He asks.</p><p>“He’s off on a scam, won’t be home till after two o’clock!” she whispers.</p><p>“Is there anyone else who would—”</p><p>“No one!” Mable interrupts, scrambling behind the ragged armchair Waddles has claimed as a nest. As Dipper creeps toward the doorway, she emerges with a metal bat in tow, pink paint flaking across her cargo bedazzled jeans and self-proclaimed goddess sweater.</p><p>From the hall, there is the sound of someone tripping over the shoes scattered there. Taking advantage of the kerfuffle, Mable lodges herself on the opposite side of the doorframe, spine pressed against the wall. The hallway light flicks on; a bulky silhouette stretching past their hiding spots and toward the flickering tv screen.</p><p>Dipper holds his breath.</p><p>Mable sneezes.</p><p>A shadow cloaked in a trenchcoat lurches through the doorway, the motion familiar even before Dipper glimpses the cliff-shards of his mentor’s face.</p><p>“Ford.”</p><p>“Dipper.”</p><p>There is no affection in his voice.</p><p>“We need to leave. Things have begun to happen in this town which only our absence can prevent.”</p><p>“Hold on, you weren’t even here yesterday!” Mable protests, reaching for the lamp beside her. “And last I checked Dipper was a fully grown scientist—” She flicks the light on. “—shut the front door!”</p><p>Dipper flinches. “Mable, maybe don’t antagonize him? If Ford wants me to leave then there’s probably a good reason—”</p><p>“Shut your mouth!” Mable shrieks, jabbing him in the stomach with a well-aimed elbow. “This man is identical to my Grunkle, so either he’s a clone, or from a different dimension—in which case, wowzer!—or he is related to me somehow and needs to explain a couple things.” She glowers at both of them, sweater a beam of consolidated neon; her piercings gleaming bright as fireflies. “Which is it?”</p><p>“I’m not a clone.”</p><p>Mable starts bouncing on her heels. “You’re from a different dimension, then?”</p><p>Ford winces. “Not exactly. I’ve been to one, if that helps.” He rubs the back of his neck with a hand. “I’m Stanley’s twin brother.”</p><p>Mable frowns. “Did you know about this, Dipper?”</p><p>“No!” He shouts, gaze rocketing between them. “He always told me to focus on my studies and when I did attempt to research our family the records had been wiped clean.” Every promise to protect each other, to never keep secrets; a failure. “You did that.”</p><p>“It was the only way—”</p><p>“It was the easiest way,” Dipper corrects; rage brimming on the edge of his tongue. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? I deserved to know!”</p><p>Ford throws his hands up into the air. “If I told you about your twin sister, could you have stayed away?”</p><p>“Twin—” Mable begins.</p><p>“—sister?” Dipper finishes, already turning to her. Already he can feel the recognition of what they are, of realized potential and loyalty not embedded but chosen, locking into place. It is the last piece of a puzzle he’s been searching for his entire life; the last knot unraveled from the yarn Ford has spun to disguise his lies.</p><p>——————————</p><p>After so long dormant, power feels like a lifewire running through him. The current is strong as a handshake; strong as a deal made to outlast armageddon.</p><p>Bill points his finger and zaps the mice through the gutter into flying monkeys. Shrieking with laughter, the trapped Cipher releases his mind to the current.</p><p>Under his slitted-gaze, a squad of gangly, flannel-clad teenagers transform into enormous, sentient slinkies; tripping the panicked residents with their razor-sharp loops of metal. From the rooftops of apartment buildings, the plumbing turns to boa constrictors, sliding their elegant, yellow-dappled folds through window sills and up drainpipes.</p><p>Hovering above the radio shack, his coat-tails flap in the carcass-tainted wind. Bill sighs, contentedly. The sound of panic has never tasted so sweet.</p><p>A sudden pressure builds behind his eye, harsh and demanding.</p><p>The sounds of an argument.</p><p>Twins standing shoulder to shoulder.</p><p>The Mystery Shack.</p><p>A six fingered hand.</p><p>Bill Cipher vanishes.</p><p>——————————</p><p>“How did we not guess this?” Mable shrieks, throwing her arm around Dipper’s shoulders. “You and I look enough alike that it should have been obvious to anyone with eyes—no descrimination meant to those without, of course.”</p><p>“Ford, I know you implied the apocalypse is about to occur but I’m not leaving Mable behind. If she’s staying, then I am too.” Dipper glares at him; hope at war with fear in his chest. “We’ll weather this together.”</p><p>Ford steps forward, finger jabbing at Dipper’s chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, boy. This isn’t like the other supernatural catastrophes you’ve experienced. The world is ending tonight because you couldn’t resist the call of the unknown! Because you fu—”</p><p>He is cut off by the sound of trumpets blaring. In a pompous swirl of coat-tails, Bill Cipher pops into existence between the twins and their great-uncle. “Now, now Sixer, no need to get riled up.” Bill laughs, top hat tipping in mocking deference. “Unless you wanted to catch my attention, old man.” He winks; smirk curving at an impossible angle.</p><p>Beside Dipper, Mable gags. “Please tell me you didn’t have a fling with my newly discovered great-uncle.”</p><p>“A fling you say?” Bill strides forward, cane bouncing from thin air into his hand. “I think you should hear the full story, Shooting Star. How Sixer here travelled through space and time and dimensions to make a deal with me. How he trapped my magic beyond the confines of this town and now,” His rage is like a comet, burning, burning, burning all in its path. “Now, his bloodline is the only thing keeping us apart; his death, the best suited revenge.”</p><p>At the end of Bill’s cane, a blade appears. Darker than obsidian; dark as the fathomless reaches of space.</p><p>Bill’s smile is cruel and weighted with anticipation. “I have been waiting for this day, a long time, Sixer.”</p><p>Ford stumbles backwards; fear, a ravenous beast. “You could have killed anyone, why wait for me?”</p><p>“Because you’re the one I wanted to kill. At first I listened, searched for people you cared for. People whose deaths would tear you apart to witness; to be responsible for.” Bill circles Ford like a vulture; prey caught under his gaze. “It didn’t take long to realize that was futile. You prize your own life, your research and your science above all else. You hold it above the floodwaters without a thought to the drowning.” His fangs glint. “And now, you are going to lose all potential of success. You are going to die a pitiful, insignificant death and no one, not even your nephew, will care.”</p><p>The wind rises.</p><p>Someone is shrieking words. Dipper thinks it is Mable, but he can’t tell. He can’t see anything but the runed blade darting toward Ford’s throat. Can’t breath through the endless moment of Bill stretching time itself to relish in the moment of his great-uncle’s death.</p><p>A thousand thoughts flood Dipper’s brain; of promises broken, and lessons he never wanted to learn; of all the things he wants to know about Mable. It would be so easy to let Ford die; to let Bill Cipher get the revenge he craves. Ford lied to Dipper because it was easy. That out of everything solidifies Dipper’s decision.</p><p>He opens his mouth.</p><p>“I want to make a deal.”</p><p> </p><p>——————————————</p><p>EPILOGUE</p><p> </p><p>“—that was the weather folks, an electrifying composition from our very own, no longer present, but very much missed, Bill Cipher. As you all know, he’s off galavanting across the known universe with my—”</p><p>“You really don’t need to say this during every broadcast.”</p><p>“—very own, twin brother!” Mable continues, undaunted. “And thank you for that reminder, Pacifica, my heart, but given that the foundation of my world has changed so drastically within these past few weeks—”</p><p>“Not literally, listeners.”</p><p>“—I feel that sense of accomplishment in being able to hold onto the good parts of that change. Such as my dear Dippingdot, bro-bro!”</p><p>“. . . please never say those words again on Air.”</p><p>“Sorry, dearest!” There is the smack of a kiss. “I refuse to make promises I won’t keep! Alrighty, we’re nearing the end of our segment tonight so as always I’ll leave you with a science-tidbit from my distant brother.”</p><p>“Let it be known, officially,” Pacifica interjects. “That we as the Radio Station Hosts of Gravity Falls, do not condone or acknowledge the validity of whatever new . . . gem, Dipper has sent Mable.”</p><p>Mable giggles. “You’re still embarrassed over that one about Space-hogs, aren’t you?”</p><p>“. . . no comment.”</p><p>Mable hums consideringly, but doesn’t press the topic. “There is a thin semantic line separating weird and beautiful. And that line is covered in jellyfish. As my partner would say, please take this information with a grain of salt.” Mable laughs, the sound crackling through radios all across town where they sit lopsided in window sills and across kitchen counters. “She’s quite opinionated. And often right.”</p><p>“In any case,” Pacifica cuts in. “Tonight is a night that all listeners should aim to acknowledge. A night filled with potential.” They exchange a glance; warm and fond. “Good evening—”</p><p>“And sweet dreams, Gravity Falls!”</p><p>—————————————</p>
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